


Backup Copies

by etothepii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=12373484#t12373484) prompt on the kink meme. Also, here's a quick [primer](http://etothepii.livejournal.com/8827.html) on the relevant premise of Dollhouse, by the way. Contains temporary character death and non-explicit torture.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=12373484#t12373484) prompt on the kink meme.

John Watson wakes up to a face right in front of his own. It jumps back when his eyes open.

His friend -- brown hair, about ten years younger than he, American, bounces on his feet and points both hands at him. "John! John Watson!"

"That's right," he says pleasantly and hops out of the recliner he was in, accepting the hand the man next to him holds out for balance. "Thanks."

"Do you trust me?" The man asks.

"With my life," John replies, and brushes off his clothes.

"Awesome, I'm totally awesome," his younger friend is saying, mostly to himself. "A year of surveillance footage and background records, and yet, I can still make it work. Oh yeah! I mean, the surveillance footage makes it pretty easy, but still. You, John, are a work of art."

"Thanks, I think."

The man touches his elbow. "Are you ready to go? It's time for you to go home."

Home sounds good. He's like to go home. "Yeah, I'd like that."

The man brings him to a black car parked outside the building. "You'll be going with him," he says. "I'll come get you for your treatment later."

"Alright," John replies agreeably, and gets in the car. Mycroft is waiting for him in the back seat. There is an umbrella on his lap. "Hi, Mycroft. Are you giving me a ride home?"

Mycroft is staring at him the way Sherlock stares sometimes -- he's deducing something. John waits patiently for an answer. "I might. Tell me, Doctor Watson, what is the last thing you remember?"

"Getting in the car with you."

"Before that?"

"Walking out the door?"

"And before that."

"Waking up after a treatment."

"And before _that_?"

John frowns. "Right before that?"

"Right before that," Mycroft confirms. "Where were you, _right before you woke up_?"

He doesn't understand. "I don't understand."

Mycroft sighs. "This won't do," he says, and pulls out his mobile.

\--

When John wakes up, Topher -- young, American, and brown-haired, is staring at him nervously. John stretches, and sits up in the reclined chair. "Is something wrong?" He catches sight of Mycroft, standing on the other side of him, and frowns. "What are you doing here?"

"John?" Mycroft asks, leaning on his umbrella.

When he doesn't say anything further, John prompts, "Yes?"

"Do you remember Sherlock?"

"Sherlock, my flatmate? Sherlock, your brother? He's pretty memorable. Why wouldn't I remember him?"

"What's the last thing you remember about him?" Topher asks, wringing his hands.

John shrugs and casts his thoughts back. "I don't know exactly. He plays the violin and does unspeakable things to the kitchen and solves crimes for the Met."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Mycroft asks.

"Should you even be here?" John asks, because he doesn't _know_ when the last time he saw Sherlock was, just that he knows Sherlock and Sherlock's his flatmate and they're friends.

"Where is 'here'?"

"Here's where it always is. It's..." John looks around -- the place is familiar to him; there is the chair, there are the computers, there are the cabinets, there are the doors to the other rooms. He shrugs. "You know."

"Pretend I don't. Where am I right now?"

"You're standing over there."

"What city are we in?"

"I don't know." Why doesn't he know? "It's not important."

"Where were you before you were here?"

"I... what?"

Topher snaps his fingers in front of John's face. "Hey, you. Stop listening to him, he's confusing you." To Mycroft, he says, "Look, you can't ask him questions like that, you're just going to confuse him. We have to do a lot of tricky stuff in their heads to keep the Actives from freaking out, and for that to happen, details have to be fudged."

"Unacceptable," Mycroft declares.

John opens his mouth to ask _what's_ unacceptable, but Topher grabs his arm and says, "Okay, its time for your treatment. Sit back down in the chair, and lean back."

A treatment sounds pretty good right about now, so John complies.

\--

Mycroft is next to him when John opens his eyes, as are Topher and Lawrence. He trusts Lawrence with his life. John hops off the chair and stretches.

"Morning, mates," he says pleasantly. "We done here?"

"When did you last see your sister, Harriet?" Mycroft asks out of nowhere.

"I'm sorry? That's really none of your business," John replies with a slight frown.

Lawrence puts a hand on his shoulder. "John, do you trust me?"

"With my life," John responds easily.

Mycroft frowns sharply. "Can't you take that part out?"

"That sounds like a _bad idea_ , Scary British Guy with Bad Ideas," Topher says immediately. "We need a way to get him back in here for his treatments -- even long-term imprints can't last forever. They need to be refreshed every few months, and it's not safe to let the dolls go around without any back doors left for our handlers. Without any handles for our handlers, hah."

John checks the time, but he's not wearing his watch. "Have you seen my watch?" he asks Lawrence, who shakes his head. But his wrist's not tanned where the watch strap would be. "Do I wear a watch?"

"Look!" Topher hisses to Mycroft. "He's already asking questions he shouldn't be asking! Questions he shouldn't even be thinking about! I can't remove more safeguards. It's a _bad idea_."

"We'll get you one from downstairs," Lawrence says, and starts to guide John out the door, a hand on the small o fhis back.

Mycroft stops him with a raised hand. "There's no need. Wipe him."

\--

John opens his eyes, and blinks. Lawrence gives him a hand down from the chair, as Topher's busy saying to Mycroft, "Okay, he should have everything from the MRI you gave me, and I've installed knowledge of the other parts, from all the super creepy surveillance footage you had on him. This is the best I can do."

Mycroft smiles at him when John drifts over; it's distinctly unnerving. "John," he says. "We were just talking about you."

"Mycroft," John replies steadily. "What are you doing here? I didn't know you needed treatments."

"I don't. Your last memory is coming home after being wounded in action in Afghanistan, correct?"

John frowns. That's right, but... "That was more than a year ago. I met Sherlock in January, before I met you, but I don't remember that."

"How did we first meet?"

"You kidnapped me and brought me to an abandoned car park."

"Do you remember that?"

John frowns. Of course he does. He was walking -- somewhere, and there had been a black car, and then he'd been in an abandoned car park and (where had it been? What had it looked like? Who had been there?). And something?

"No. No I don't. I know it happened, but I don't --" but he doesn't _remember_. He doesn't know where he was when Mycroft kidnapped him, he doesn't remember it.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"I got shot. You... don't you know that? What's going on?" There's something off here -- something doesn't feel right, but he doesn't know what.

The last thing he remembers is coming home after being invalided, and going to hospital for the shoulder and the limp. He knows the limp is psychosomatic (they told him that after, but he doesn't remember the face of the doctor who told him, doesn't remember being told even).

He knows that he met Sherlock Holmes. He knows that Sherlock's his flatmate, and that they're friends, and that Sherlock wears nicotine patches and drinks tea but prefers John to make it for him.

He knows Sherlock shot bullet holes in the wall, and he knows it probably made him angry because he'd used John's gun to do it, but he doesn't _remember_ it -- he can't recall how it'd felt to see him there, and he doesn't know why they chose to be flatmates, and now that he's wondering about all the things he doesn't know, John realizes, with a sense of rising panic, that he doesn't know what the chair he was in does, except that he'd had his _head_ in some device, and he'd been given a _treatment_ , when he'd opened his eyes and he knows who Topher is but doesn't know what he does -- _friend_ his subconscious tells him, but he doesn't know where they met or how or what Topher's doing in London unless he's not in London anymore and

Lawrence puts his hand firmly on John's arm.

"Who are you? I don't _know_ you," John says, and jerks his arm away. "What's going on?"

Lawrence says, "Do you trust me?"

Of course he does. "With my life," John promises, and relaxes.

"You need a treatment," Lawrence says firmly, in a voice that leaves no room for argument. "It's time for your treatment."

John nods. "I like treatments."

As he sits down and the machine begins to whirr, he hears Mycroft's voice saying approvingly, distantly, "Much better. I just have a couple minor..."

\--

John wakes up in a body that isn't his, but feels familiar nonetheless.

He is in a secure underground facility in London. The young man standing next to him has the twitchiness of someone who hasn't had enough sleep and is making up for it with caffeine or other substances. His name is Topher Brink, and he's a brilliant scientist known in some circles for constructing realistic personalities (imprints) that can be implanted into other people's bodies (dolls).

The older man, reading notes in a corner of the room, is Mycroft Holmes. He is the older brother and arch-nemesis of Sherlock Holmes, and has quite a lot of influence in the British government, and possibly the American one as well. John has met him before, but he doesn't remember it.

Sherlock Holmes is his flat mate. Sherlock Holmes is a tall, handsome, genius that consults for the police, as well as for clients who email him through his website. John has been living with Sherlock for the better part of a year now, in the upstairs bedroom of 221B Baker Street. They are close friends. John helps him on his cases.

John doesn't remember him. John doesn't remember any of them.

He looks at his hands. They look like hands, but the skin tone's off -- too pale, when he'd been tanned before. They _feel_ like his hands, but there are no callouses on them, and that's wrong, because he knows he has callouses on his hands just as much as he knows that these are his hands.

"I don't understand," he says finally. "Can someone explain what's going on?"

"You're in a Dollhouse," Mycroft says, and Topher jumps up, waving his arms frantically.

"Ix-nay on the ollhouse-day!" he exclaims. "Are you trying to get us caught? Everything is on a _need to know basis_. We don't want another federal investigation coming after us."

"You're more excitable than I expect you to be," John comments, which is strange, because he doesn't _remember_ ever spending time with Topher before, but he still knows him as well as an old friend. Only, not, because he doesn't know anything _about_ Topher (not his favorite color, or favorite food, or where he went to school).

"Okay. John," Topher says, punctuating his words with hand gestures. "How much do you know about... Wait, no, lemme put it this way: you were shot in Afghanistan, and it was pretty bad. And so they shipped you back home, where they put you through some tests to see if you were okay, and took an MRI of your brain. You have PTSD, by the way."

John nods. He does. They'd diagnosed him with PTSD. He'd had a therapist for that and the psychosomatic limp (he shifts his weight to his leg; it doesn't seem to hurt, so maybe it's gone away -- wait, no, this isn't his real body).

"That's what you used to put me in this body," he says, and Topher's surprised expression confirms he's correct. "You took an old brain scan of mine and put it into this body. What about the rest? Where did that come from?"

"CCTV and surveillance footage, primarily. Also your blog and email inbox," Mycroft says. "Mr. Brink here was able to take the information we had on you from the past year and knit it into the intact personality scan we had from the time of your MRI. It was very complicated." He smiles tightly.

This does not sound legal. In so many different ways. "Then, I'm not real," John says. "I'm just... an artificial intelligence installed in a body. How do I even know if what I think I know is true or not, if you can just go mucking about in my brain and _putting things there_?"

"I made certain that Mr. Brink kept your original personality fully intact, and added the information from the past year in as unobtrusive a way as possible," Mycroft reassures him smoothly. John doesn't find it particularly reassuring.

But what John wants to know is, why did they go through all that trouble when they could have just kidnapped him and scanned a more recent version of his brain? Mycroft had already kidnapped him once before, so it couldn't have been that difficult. Unless...

"I'm dead, aren't I? The real John Watson, I mean."

"Yes," Mycroft replies. "You were captured and killed by Moriarty."

Moriarty is the psychopath obsessed with Sherlock. He's a consulting criminal, in the same way that Sherlock is a consulting detective. He introduced himself to Sherlock by strapping Semtex to his victims (John included) and forcing Sherlock to solve crimes, and then went off the radar for months.

"I hate him, right? Where is he now?"

"Sherlock killed him. Months ago."

"So... why am I here? If you don't need me to find Moriarty, and I'm already dead." The thought makes him shiver. "What do you want from me?"

"Just to send you back home to 221B Baker Street, Doctor Watson."

"But, why?"

"Because Sherlock needs you."

\--

The Dollhouse has a massive amount of clothing and accessories in a room in one of the lower layers. Topher manages to find him a watch that looks mostly like his watch, as well as a jumper and some jeans that look like something he'd wear.

The last part takes longer than expected because he keeps misremembering his measurements. He is an inch or two taller than he used to be, and much more fit than the real John Watson. The face he sees in the mirror rings familiar but at the same time doesn't quite match with his memories.

He's starting to get a headache.

"This was the doll they had that closest resembled you," Mycroft says when John catches himself staring at one of the reflective walls again, hand partway raised to touch his cheek.

"What are you going to tell Sherlock?"

"The truth, of course. He'd only deduce it otherwise."

\--

Mycroft has a key to their flat (Sherlock's flat? John's legally dead right now, even though he doesn't know anything about that, aside from "Moriarty killed you”), and he lets them in. "Sherlock," he calls.

"Go away, Mycroft." The muffled sound comes from the sofa, where Sherlock is sulking. The image is familiar -- Sherlock does this often.

"I brought someone," Mycroft continues, undeterred, as John takes a look around.

The knowledge Topher had installed in him had ended at his abduction -- to be more realistic, he assumed, because the real John Watson wouldn't know what happened after he went missing either, and the flat's changed since then. His things are gone, and the walls are damaged (not just the bullet holes, which he knows about, but there are gouges in the wallpaper as if knives or other sharp objects have been thrown at it).

Sometimes, there are case notes above the fireplace but there aren't any right now, making it look oddly bereft. The mantle above the fireplace is bare, except for a spot on the far-right, and there is a small pile of stuff (papers, a knife, a small book) on the floor, where they'd been swept from the shelf.

Sherlock ignores them, and Mycroft taps John's ankle with the tip of his umbrella. "Say something," he murmurs.

"I don't really know what to say," John replies, looking at his trainers -- he wears a different size now. "Do you often bring people back from the dead?"

At the sound of John's voice (his new voice), Sherlock turns around, catching John's gaze with his own. His eyes narrow and his brows furrow, and John recognizes that expression -- but he didn't know that seeing it in person would make him feel like Sherlock was peeling him apart and spilling his secrets on the floor between them.

"John," Sherlock declares suspiciously.

"What?"

Sherlock shifts his attention to Mycroft and gets to his feet; he's thinner than the mental image John has of him, and the light catches ragged stubble on his jaw that John hadn't noticed before. There are bags under his eyes. "I see you've been to America," he says levelly to his brother.

"I see you've still been having nightmares," Mycroft replies in the same tone. "And you haven't eaten yet."

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, then John, then Mycroft once more. "He doesn't look a thing like John did."

"I bought the closest one they had available," Mycroft says, and sits in an armchair. "John, you won't have access to your bank accounts until the paperwork's been sorted. In the meantime, I'll provide you with any funds you need."

"That's very kind of you," John says politely. "Thanks?"

Sherlock strides closer and grabs John's wrist, turning it over in his hand and pressing his first two fingers to the pulse point. "Hmm."

"I'm not a robot, Sherlock," John says, and feels briefly confused. Because Sherlock is standing just a little closer than should be comfortable, and he can't tell if it feels familiar or bothers him or _what_.

"I can tell you, if you can't figure it out own your own," Mycroft offers. He has his phone out, and is typing a text message on it.

"Don't be insulting," Sherlock says scornfully to Mycroft, and grabs John's chin in his hand.

"Has anyone talked to you about personal space?" John asks, when Sherlock stares at him with no indication that he might let up.

"What's your name?"

"John Watson."

"What year were you born?"

"1971."

"Your sister's nickname."

"Harry."

"The prime minister."

"Gordon Brown."

Sherlock looks at Mycroft. "Wrong," Mycroft tells him. "Hasn't been since last May."

"Wait, you don't know who the prime minister is?" John asks, tugging his head free. "Is this like you not knowing the earth goes around the sun?"

"How do you know about that?" Sherlock demands.

"According to _him_ ," and John tilts his chin at Mycroft, "CCTV and surveillance footage."

"That one was your blog, actually," Mycroft corrects mildly.

John has a blog, right. He'd started it because his therapist had suggested he do so. He knows its address, but doesn't remember typing entries (he has distant third-party mental images of it, but none from _his_ perspective, no memories of looking at words on the screen, or of setting it up).

John knows the moment Sherlock figures it out, because Sherlock steeples his fingers together and says, "Obviously, you don't remember being captured by Moriarty. And you're aware you aren't _actually_ John Watson."

This isn't actually true -- John is familiar with science fiction, and he's had conversations with his mates before, about this sort of thing. He'd never expected them to actually turn out useful. "Actually, I always promised myself that if there were two of me, we'd _both_ be John Watson," he says, and feels a glow of smug pride at Sherlock's surprised expression. He doesn't remember that one -- it must not have been one of the things the Dollhouse had given him.

"The real John Watson's dead," Sherlock says flatly, and as he says the words, a spark goes out in his eyes. "You're just a copy installed in someone else's body. How did you get his memories so accurately?" he asks Mycroft.

Mycroft's smile is strained. "I assure you, he's as real as possible, given the circumstances. The memories are from a brain scan taken shortly after he arrived back from Afghanistan."

"John didn't have any brain scans while he was living at this flat. He doesn't have any memories of me -- obvious, don't try to deny it, just look at his face. But all of that, everything from the past year, you were able to install into his mind?"

"It was very _advanced_ technology."

"I can see that," Sherlock replies. "Why did you bring him here?"

"For you, of course."

"I don't need a keeper," Sherlock says acerbically, but from what John's seen of the place, he really, really does. "Certainly not a -- a machine programmed to act like John."

"For all intents and purposes, this _is_ John Watson," Mycroft says. "He has all the skills, memories, and training that he did a year and a half ago, and everything else that seemed relevant from the past year, up until his death, has been added to his knowledge. Surely that isn't so bad, is it?"

"We'll see," Sherlock mutters darkly.

\--

When Mycroft leaves, Sherlock looks at John consideringly, as if he's not quite sure what to make of him.

"You can stop looking at me like that," John says. If he's careful not to prod too hard at the knowledge he has -- if he approaches it obliquely, instead of head-on, it's not so weird. It feels like he's been only gone a few months ( _dead_ , he can see the signs of grief in the shadows of Sherlock's features, and he doesn't know what to make of it).

"How well do you know me?" Sherlock asks. "Are you really -- real?"

John doesn't really want to think about it. He doesn't want to wonder who he is. He doesn't want to think about what it means, that he came from a wedge of hardware stuck into a chair and knows things he's no right to know.

There is a tension in Sherlock that John's never seen before (never been shown before).

John says, "I feel like everything was normal until I got back to London, and after I got here, all my feelings went away and I just watched someone who looked like me go through all the motions."

Depersonalization, taken to an extreme.

"You don't look like John."

"My shoes are a size too large, I'm two inches taller -- not complaining about that one, and I think I might weigh less. My hands are the wrong size, I don't have a scar on my shoulder anymore, and one of the programmers says he took away my PTSD and psychosomatic limp."

"Do you remember the scar?"

"I know I did physical therapy before I could use it again. But no, I don't remember it. Not really." He doesn't remember the scar -- just the wound, burning with pain every time he tried to move his arm. It's gone now. The body he's in is pristine and unmarked.

It feels almost as if all his accomplishments have been wiped away.

\--

Sherlock can't stop staring at him and it makes him nervous, so eventually John goes up to his room (his body knows, on autopilot, where to go). His room hasn't been cleared out yet -- it should have been, because Harry should have gotten all his things in the event of his death, but it isn't, and he wonders if it was Mycroft's doing or Sherlock's.

His laptop is on the desk. It only takes John a few minutes to guess his password, starting at the one he uses for everything and moving on to the ones he knows he'd choose next as each previous password got guessed.

His SIG is not in any of his drawers, even though he knows he has one somewhere -- he hopes it's with Sherlock, because the alternative is that either Harry or Lestrade (the Detective Inspector he and Sherlock sometimes work with) found it, and if that had happened, he'd never get it back.

Everything looks the same. Everything feels right, as long as he doesn't think too hard about who he is or how he got here. He checks his email and reads his blog (the posts are familiar, even though he doesn't remember sitting down to write them) and realizes he doesn't have a phone anymore.

He goes down to the kitchen when his stomach growls, makes himself dinner and tries, unsuccessfully, to convince Sherlock to eat something as well.

"I'll leave the rest of it in the fridge, if you change your mind," John says finally. Sherlock doesn't respond, but John feels eyes on the back of his neck when he walks back to his room.

\--

Mycroft gives John a fake identity as John Weber, and tells him to avoid people he knew as John Watson (Sherlock excepted, of course) for the foreseeable future. Then, he sends him a box of surveillance footage of John and Sherlock in their flat. _In case you wanted them,_ the note says, and it goes to the top of the list John has in his head, the list of things he needs to know that the Dollhouse hadn't been able to give him.

"Have I ever mentioned how creepy your brother is?" John asks when he puts the first DVD into his laptop and gets a view of, well -- not much, really. Sherlock watching the telly while John types on his computer.

"The real John Watson's brought it up a few times," Sherlock says.

He does that -- talks about them like they're separate people, and John doesn't know what to make of it. He's not the same John Watson that Sherlock met, and he knows that. He even feels it, the slight strangeness, where their edges don't quite mesh together in the way that they'd used to.

"Surveillance on our flat. Really?" John looks out the window, trying to spot the camera based on the perspective from the DVD.

"Don't bother. He moves the hidden cameras every fortnight."

There's no audio track, but John doesn't need one, because the John on the screen is snapping the laptop shut and pushing back his chair. He stands, back to the camera, and must say something, because the Sherlock on the screen laughs. It makes his face light up in a way that John hasn't seen yet.

There is no loss on that Sherlock's face, no grief carved into his flesh, nothing to make him gaunt and defeated and maybe even _broken_.

He touches his fingers to the screen, missing that Sherlock keenly. "I know I'm not him. But I'm who he was a year and a half ago, and I'm still your friend."

"I know that," Sherlock replies, "but it's not the same."

\--

John doesn't have nightmares about Afghanistan anymore. They took that away from him (complimentary part of the package, Topher had said, but John doesn't know if he wanted them gone).

But he still sleeps lightly, and he jolts awake when he hears Sherlock screaming his name. He's fumbling in his bedside drawer for his gun. It's not there, right; he needs to ask Sherlock where he put it. Adrenaline shoots through his system when Sherlock cries out again, and he realizes abruptly what the cause is.

 _Nightmare_.

John skips half the steps on his way down the stairs.

Sherlock's door is unlocked, and he's thrashing on his bed, repeating brokenly, " _John_. I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_."

John grabs his shoulder and shakes it roughly. "Sherlock! It's okay, it's a nightmare. It's okay." He knows when Sherlock wakes because he goes still abruptly and sits up.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says brokenly again, voice choking on a sob, the name coming out strangled. He takes a couple deep breaths, and his hand clasps John's, squeezing tightly. His second hand snakes out to do the same, grabbing John's other hand, thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

"It's okay," John murmurs. "It's okay, I'm here now."

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's not okay," he says firmly, pressing his forehead against John's shoulder. His hands release John's, only to slide ups John's arms, gripping him tightly. "I couldn't find you in time. I let you die."

"It wasn't your fault. You did all you could," John says. He puts his arms around Sherlock and rubs small circles into his back. "It's okay."

There is a watery laugh from the vicinity of his shoulder. Sherlock's tangled curls brush against the underside of his chin. "You said that before. When he let you speak to me. 'It's okay if you don't find me. It's not your fault.' And then he killed you."

"I know. And I meant it."

"How can you know that? You don't even remember it." Sherlock calms slowly as he takes in John's presence. The bruising grip on John's arms eases.

"I didn't lose that much time -- a few weeks when Moriarty had me, and there's only bits and pieces of the year before that I don't know about. And I know _myself_. I never would have blamed you for what he did."

"He took you away from me," Sherlock says softly. His fingers play gently over John's bare bicep. "He took you away from me, and he died thinking he'd won. But then, after I'd killed him, Mycroft brought you back from the dead."

"I know. I'm here now." John gives Sherlock a hug, and it's only when he inhales and gets a deep breath of Sherlock's scent -- smelling like warmth and sweat and sleepiness, that he realizes abruptly that he is sitting with Sherlock on Sherlock's _bed_ , bare-chested and embracing him and suddenly half-hard.

Sherlock notices his sudden tension and instantly deduces why, of course. He ducks out from between John's arms and looks at him in the moonlight, drawn in shadows. "Oh," he says, sounding surprised. "You're attracted to me."

This is true. Sherlock is tall and slender and beautifully graceful. He has a mop of curls that John itches to bury his fingers in, and a smooth, pale neck that he wants to press his mouth against. And he's brilliant, John knows, even though Sherlock hasn't yet accepted another case to work on and John's knowledge of this comes second-hand.

John's always had a thing for smart, attractive men. But he knows Sherlock's not interested -- not in men, not in sex, and almost certainly not in whoever John is now, someone eclipsed by the shadowy memories of his own death.

"I know. It doesn't have to mean anything." John starts to move off the bed, but Sherlock grabs his arm.

"You said something else, too," Sherlock says. "Before you died."

"That I loved you, right?"

There is a moment of stunned silence. Sherlock lets go of him. "You knew. How did you know?"

 _Because we weren't like that when I died, but I saw the way I looked at you. Because I've killed men for you and shown no signs of regretting it. Because I stayed here even when you left body parts in the fridge and stole my gun. Because I know what you look like when you're in your element, and I think I'd give anything to see it for myself._

"Because," John says, "It's obvious."

"Is it?"

"It was to me."

Sherlock doesn't say anything to that, and after another minute, John lets himself out.

\--

When John wakes up after his next treatment (supposedly to make sure nothing's gone wrong with the imprint, but he suspects they're backing up his consciousness into one of the wedges to make sure they have a current version of him in case he dies again), Mycroft hands him another set of identification.

"John Watson again," he says. "I've informed the relevant parties of the truth surrounding your... circumstances. Namely, your landlady and select members of Scotland Yard -- only Lestrade, of the ones you know."

"You told them a mad scientist installed my memories and personality into someone else's body?"

"Something like that," Mycroft says. He hands a folder to John. "Ask Sherlock to find the leak in Ms. Maribel's security detail."

"He hasn't taken any cases recently, but I'll try."

"One more thing," Mycroft says later, when he has escorted John to the car that will deposit him back at Baker Street. He blocks the car door with the tip of his umbrella.

"What?"

"Sherlock's condition has improved dramatically since your return," Mycroft says seriously. "I'm indebted to you. If there is anything you need or want from me, simply let me know, and I shall do whatever I can."

 _It can't have been that bad_ is on the tip of John's tongue, but he doesn't say it out loud, because he thinks it _had_ been that bad. Sherlock's gained upwards of ten pounds since John's return to Baker Street, and he _still_ looks unhealthily skinny, and he is prone to long bouts of silence that feel deeper and more melancholy than his usual sulking.

There are times in which he's almost the Sherlock that John fake-remembers, but they are few and far between.

"I'll let you know if anything happens," John replies, and closes the door.

\--

Sherlock does not want to take the case, of course.

"I don't know why you're being so difficult about this," John says. "You haven't had a case in ages." _Aren't you dying of boredom?_ he wants to ask, but he doesn't yet, because when his mother had died, he'd gone two weeks without sobriety and spent another month feeling too numb to do anything, not even go to classes.

"Yes, but it's _Mycroft_. I don't want him to get used to the idea that I'll solve his cases for him." Sherlock draws his bow across one of the strings on his violin, drawing a clear, even note. He tilts his head slightly, then adjusts a peg.

"You could always solve it and not tell him who did it."

Sherlock tenses. "You've suggested that to me before," he says, and tests the string again -- it sounds the same to John, but Sherlock smiles inwardly to himself and moves on to the next one.

"I'm not surprised," John agrees. The gaps in his memory don't bother him anymore, though he knows it still unnerves Sherlock. John can tell the difference between real memories and the artificial ones inserted by the Dollhouse, but as time goes forward and he makes his own, _real_ memories of his life here, that difference seems less important. "What did you say back?"

"That it was more convenient to reject it outright rather than investigate, and if I investigated, Mycroft would be able to solve it himself from my notes."

"So you rejected the case?"

"That was shortly before the murder investigation involving the identical triplets. Mycroft had to take care of it himself." Another long, drawn-out note, and this time, Sherlock makes a pleased hum.

"Oh, that one. I remember that. Well, sort of," John corrects himself wryly. "But don't you want to find out who did it before he does? It might even be fun. Please?"

"I'll look at it," Sherlock concedes, and adjusts the last peg. He draws the bow over each string briefly, then glances at John. "Any preferences?"

"I never used to listen to violin music before I met you. Anything I liked before is fine."

"I used to play this one late at night," Sherlock tells him, and fills the flat with music, mournful and pure.  



	2. Chapter 2

Moriarty abducts John on the 17th of January.

There is an email in Sherlock's inbox. It reads, _I told you I'd burn the heart out of you,_ and is not signed. But then again, it doesn't need to be. He calls Mycroft immediately, of course, because arch-nemesis or not, Mycroft has resources at his disposal that Sherlock doesn't.

But Mycroft, apparently, does not have _enough_ resources, because Sherlock soon receives a box in the post containing one left thumb. It's _John's_ left thumb. He's sure it is, thanks to the hours upon hours he's spent observing his flatmate, even before the fingerprint check comes through (it's a match, of course).

No note.

He finds the man who abducted John (bootprints, and signs of a struggle on the path between 221B and the hospital where John works, distinctive tread and easy to track) before Scotland Yard does, but not before getting the second box in the post -- John left index finger.

Still no note, which is itself a message. There is nothing, right now, that Sherlock can do to convince Moriarty to give John back.

The man knew Moriarty's name, where to find John, and where to deliver John once he had him. In the ensuing struggle, John had killed the man's two accomplices. Sherlock finishes the job for him.

Afterwards he calls Mycroft, because hiding the body will take hours that Sherlock hasn't got to spare.

\--

After Sherlock finds the third place they kept John (too slowly -- he needs to work faster, but even the pills he's taking aren't enough, and he now has four of John's fingers in the freezer at the flat), he receives a call on the pink phone.

"Give him back," Sherlock says as soon as he answers it.

"I don't think so," replies Moriarty's cheerful, sing-song voice. "You need to stop looking for him."

"What do you want? What are you doing this?"

"You know why I'm doing this. Because it's _fun_. Poor Sherlock, lost without Doctor John Watson. Will you still love him when he hasn't any fingers left?"

There is something wrong with Sherlock's throat. There must be. Maybe he's been poisoned, because he can't breathe. There's a burning sensation in his face, and his mouth is saying without any intervention from his brain, "Please. Please I'll do anything. Just don't hurt him," and his voice sounds wrong. There's a tremor in it that shouldn't be there.

"Anything? And what will you do if I let you talk to him?"

"What do you want?"

Sherlock realizes suddenly, spontaneously, that he wants desperately to hear John's voice again. He wants (needs) to hear John saying, _Sherlock_ , or _it's okay_ even though it's not okay, even though it'll never be okay, because even if he were to miraculously find John _now_ , John would still be missing four fingers on his left hand and it is too late for them to be repaired, and it is all Sherlock's fault, because he'd gained the attention of a madman and that madman had targeted _John_ \-- sweet, reliable, comfortable _John_ , and now that madman was going to break him.

And it's all his fault.

"Stop chasing him," Moriarty says pleasantly. "Stop chasing me. I'll let you talk to him, right now, if you stop looking for us. And if you don't, I'll kill him."

"Fine." He didn't meant to say that, but -- but he can't _think_ , and it's the most terrifying feeling in the world.

There is a rustling sound on the other end of the line -- footsteps, followed by an impact and a groan of pain (the voice is familiar; it's John. John's in _pain_ and there's nothing Sherlock can do), and then, "Hello?"

"John. John John John. I'm so sorry this is all my fault I can't -- I'm sorry, John. I'm _sorry_." And words are tripping over themselves in his mouth, but he can't push them past his lips, his voice isn't working anymore, because the burning in his face and his throat has gotten out of control and. Oh. He's crying. He's crying, and he can't stop, but he can still hear John -- beautiful, wonderful John, who he's failed so thoroughly.

 _I should be there, not you._

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay. It's okay, it's not your fault. Calm down, Sherlock."

"I'll find you," Sherlock promises. "I'll find you and I'll kill him and I'll bring you home. I promise."

John laughs on the other line, and it is the worst sound Sherlock has ever heard, because there's no hope in it. It's empty and bleak and _defeated_. "Maybe. But if you don't, I just wanted to let you know -- I love you. Okay? Did you hear me, Sherlock? It's okay if you don't find me, it's not your fault, and _I love you_."

John abruptly gives a grunt of pain -- kicked by Moriarty, a small part of his consciousness notes, and the phone is swept away. "Aww! How touching! Did you like that, Sherlock? He _loves you_. I think I might cry. Oh wait, you already are."

Sherlock takes the part of him that hurts, that's bleeding and won't ever stop bleeding because John's _broken_ now, broken and hurting, and forcibly cuts it away, like excising dead flesh from a wound. "I am going to kill you," he says. His voice is steady, and his breathing has almost evened out. "I will find you, and I will kill you."

"Nuh-uh-uh! Not if you ever want to see John again. Let's make a deal: you don't do anything for a week -- an entire week, and I'll send you some photographs of John here. What do you think?"

"A week, and you'll let me talk to him."

"Nope! Talking's not on the table any more. Actually, none of it is. I might send you some photos, I might not. I'm fickle like that." His voice turns dark, ugly. "But stop looking for me, or I'll kill him."

Moriarty hangs up.

Sherlock stares at the phone for a long time, after that.

\--

It turns out he doesn't have to make the decision because he wakes up in hospital with an IV in his veins -- glucose drip.

"You collapsed at Scotland Yard," Mycroft's PA says to him when he stirs. She is reading something on her Blackberry.

His head feels fuzzy. His thoughts are slower, and he's having difficulty sitting up.

"You're also sedated," she continues smoothly. "Because you pulled out your IV and tried to fight the doctors."

"How long has it been?" he croaks.

"Two days." That's longer than he'd be kept at hospital for fainting from lack of nourishment. It has Mycroft's fat fingerprints _all over it_.

"Moriarty?"

"Mr. Holmes is working on it."

"John?"

"I'm not allowed to tell you that, sir."

\--

He checks himself out and restricts his investigation to avenues Moriarty can't track. He is "rewarded” by the delivery of a package of Polaroid photographs. There are dozens of them, taken gleefully and carelessly (the work of an amateur photographer), of John being tortured. Moriarty is in some of them, smiling at the camera, posing with John's broken and bleeding form.

In the last one, John is missing his left hand, and he looks _defeated_. There is no defiance in his gaze, just a weary resignation.

This is when the nightmares start.

\--

Everything changes after the third week, or maybe the fourth. Sherlock isn't keeping track. He isn't sure what month it is, let alone the day, because that is when Moriarty sends him John Watson's heart in a box, and everything else _stops_.

\--

He finds Moriarty eventually -- in Spain, of all places, and _catches_ him. He drinks in the sight of Moriarty's fear, and memorizes his expressions as that fear changes to terror changes to horror.

It doesn't help.

He'd thought it would, that maybe the hollow, bleeding wound in his chest would stop hurting, but it doesn't. If he closes his eyes, he can still see John -- bleeding and broken and _defeated_ , and if he concentrates, he can _almost_ remember the sound of John's voice, distorted and tinny over the phone.

 _I just wanted to let you know -- I love you_.

He's memorized the words. They are burned indelibly in his memory, carved into his bones by his fear. But he _can't remember John's voice_ , can't bring up the exact pitch, or the multitude of different ways John had used to say his name.

\--

Moriarty is still alive when Mycroft finds Sherlock and physically takes the knife from his hand.

"Give it back," Sherlock demands, and holds his hand out.

Mycroft makes a moue of distaste -- he's holding the knife gingerly, with only his thumb and index finger. He doesn't want the dried blood to flake onto his cuffs. "Sherlock, are you done yet?"

"No," Sherlock replies, because Moriarty is still alive and John is still _dead_. He holds out his hand for the knife. When Mycroft refuses to give it to him, Sherlock picks up a second one from the tray next to him.

"You've been torturing him for days, Sherlock," Mycroft says sternly. "He's barely conscious." Mycroft is displeased with him.

Which is really quite unfair, considering Moriarty had done the same to John, and he's still _alive_. Sherlock had thought about leaving Moriarty alive after this, albeit permanently damaged -- except he's not sure he's removed all of Moriarty's danger yet and it seems unwise to let him live.

"Yes, but he had John for weeks. I've only had him for a few days," Sherlock points out logically. Mycroft understands logic.

Except that right now, Mycroft apparently doesn't, because his face crumples -- pain, grief, and something else, something Sherlock hasn't seen since Mycroft had had to explain to Sherlock why it wasn't right to experiment on live animals. "Hurting him won't bring John back."

"I'm not stupid. I know that," he snaps.

"It's stopped making you feel better as well. You've already caught him, and he's going to die. Does it really matter how much longer you hurt him?"

"I could let him go. You could keep him alive for years -- he hasn't any infections, and I've cauterized all the wounds that bled too heavily."

"I could," Mycroft agrees, and holds his hand out for the second knife. "But there's nothing to be gained in that. Let's go, Sherlock. I've already called in the cleanup team."

"I know how to hide a body," Sherlock says petulantly. "I don't need to be babied."

"Just finish it, and we'll go. Lestrade has a case for you, if you're interested."

Sherlock kneels in front of Moriarty, who struggles feebly to get away. Sherlock stabs him below the ribs, then pulls the knife downwards -- it's dull, so he has to saw at the flesh a little before it splits open, revealing glistening, delicate things that should never be exposed to the open air.

Oh, it _is_ more interesting than examining a corpse (he'd always known it would be, but this is the first time he's had the opportunity to properly _look_ ).

A hand falls on his shoulder. " _Sherlock_. We have to go."

"Wait, not yet," Sherlock says quickly, grabbing for his tools. A few short moments later, Moriarty's ribs are bent outwards, exposing his heart.

He watches until it stops beating, then lets Mycroft guide him out.

\--

Sherlock prods thoughtfully at the edges of the hollowness inside him. He can't be sure, but he thinks the need for revenge has faded. He doesn't want to kill Moriarty anymore (he's _already_ killed Moriarty).

But it still hurts. _He_ still hurts. He'd hoped the pain would go away, but it hasn't. Perhaps it'll take more time.

Mycroft's PA freezes for almost four seconds at the sight of Sherlock when he opens the door of the car, and she shoots a _look_ at Mycroft. Fear. Probably to do with the dried blood caked on his clothing and hands.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sherlock says bluntly, and sits down. He's going to leave bloodstains on the seats, but he doesn't much care. Mycroft deserves the minor inconvenience for interrupting him. Mycroft joins him in the back -- still concerned, then, or possibly an action meant to reassure his assistant.

Mycroft wets a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a bottle of water, then applies it to Sherlock's face. It comes back dull red. He's saying Sherlock's name again -- he's sad, but Sherlock isn't sure why. Mycroft's been responsible for many more deaths than he has.

"It's not my blood," he mumbles as Mycroft cleans his face, and stares at his hands. How had he gotten blood on his face? He thinks -- one of Moriarty's guards when he'd slit the man's throat and hit an artery, and probably smears of it if he'd wiped his face with the back of his hand at any point. He isn't sure; normally he would be, but all he remembers now is the vivid change in Moriarty's face as he'd gone from confident to horrified, when he'd realized he wasn't going to get away this time.

He scratches idly at a patch of dried blood near the bottom of his wrist -- it flakes off, but fresh blood from his fingertips smears red on the newly-revealed skin. "None of it's mine. I wasn't hurt."

\--

He bathes, shaves, and changes his clothes at Mycroft's safe house. He checks his face in the bedroom mirror before stepping into the sitting room. He looks the same as he always did. It doesn't feel right; there should be something _there_ , something _obvious_ , to show that he's no longer whole.

Mycroft is worried about him.

"I'm not going to go on a killing spree," Sherlock says as he sips the cup of tea Mycroft gives him.

"You mean _another_ killing spree," Mycroft corrects him. "You left a trail of bodies on your way to Moriarty. It wasn't easy to cover those up."

Lies. It couldn't have been terribly difficult. Mycroft's influence is substantial, and Sherlock knows the British government has wanted Moriarty dead for ages. Moriarty's men were certainly acceptable casualties to get to him. But Sherlock doesn't say that.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. Come here." Mycroft puts an arm around him and pulls Sherlock against his body. "Moriarty's dead. Do you feel better now?"

"Yes, I think so."

\--

But that turns out to be a lie, because now that Moriarty's gone there's nothing left to focus him. He returns to 221B because he can't bear to leave it. He takes a case and it _hurts_ , because every time he makes a deduction he feels a smile tugging on his lips and he turns, just a little bit, before realizing that _John is not there_.

The thousandth realization hurts no less than the first one.

So, he stops taking cases. He doesn't enjoy them the way he used to. He doesn't care anymore about seeming clever or stopping crimes, and he doesn't actually need the money. He has Mycroft's check book (legitimately) and knows his brother doesn't care if Sherlock forges his signature to pay rent.

Mostly he spends his time mentally replaying what happened.

He should have known Moriarty was going to strike on that day. He should have known John wouldn't be able to fight them all off, and taken more precautions.

He should have moved faster. He should have deduced John's locations sooner, or been better at persuading Moriarty not to hurt him. He should have found something to use against Moriarty. He should have spent _all_ his time looking for something to control Moriarty as soon as he'd heard about him, instead of faffing about on cases and giving Moriarty time to make his plans.

Because now John's gone.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=12373484#t12373484) prompt on the kink meme.

John calls Harry to explains things, more or less, to her.

It turns into a visit to her flat, where she doesn't recognize him at first. When she finally listens, he holds her on the sofa and strokes her hair as she cries into his shoulder, whispering their shared memories to her, things only they would know.

 _I saw you kissing your girlfriend when you were thirteen, and you were scared I would tell, but I never did._

 _We found a stray dog on the street when we were kids. We named him Scamp, but Mum made us give him back to his real owners when they called, and after that, we went to the pond and caught frogs._

 _You gave me a jumper before I was deployed, and I wore it whenever I could. It got ruined on a case with Sherlock, I think -- it's not in my drawers anymore._

"It's me, it's really me," he promises as she fists her hands in his jumper. "I got a new body and I lost the whole year before I died and they had to give it back to me in pieces, but it's still me."

"You _died_." There is a wet spot on his shoulder, and probably snot on his jumper too, but he doesn't mind, because she's his baby sister and he _loves_ her and that's what matters. It doesn't matter that they don't get on or that normally, they talk once a month at most. She's _blood_."You were _gone_."

"I know, I know," he says, and strokes her hair. "I'm sorry. But I came back."

He wishes it could be this easy with Sherlock, but he knows already why it can't.

When John died and lost a year, it'd left him with thirty-six others in which he'd been Harry's older brother. He doesn't remember anything about Harry from the past year, but then, he doesn't really remember anything in particular about Harry from his second year at Bart's either.

It doesn't matter, because he knows what she looks like when she cries, and the way she flails her arms when she's really mad, and the way she'd looked, pale and terrified, when she'd told him she was a lesbian and that wasn't going to change and please, please would he help her hide it from their parents?

But he'd only had the one year with Sherlock, and when it'd gone and been filled with _things_ \-- surveillance footage and case notes and blog entries, there'd been spaces left over, big gaping holes where familiarity should be but _isn't_. The only things keeping he and Sherlock from being strangers are the things Mycroft put in his head.

There are in-jokes he should know that fall flat, habits Sherlock has that he doesn't recognize, and a multitude of conversations he's lost and can't get back.

\--

Sherlock's case goes off without a hitch, and John feels a warm pleasure at being able to introduce himself as John Watson again. He's even got his old service record back, albeit with some details changed to fit in with his younger body.

Throughout the case, there are sparks of animation in Sherlock's demeanor, moments where he's in his element and _happy_ , and it makes something clench tightly inside John's chest because every time Sherlock turns and sees him, his expression shutters closed.

But less so now than before.

\--

  
The thing between them -- started when Sherlock embraced him in the dead of night and said, _I'm sorry I let you die_ , finally spills into action on a rainy day while they're both trapped in the flat.

"Are you even attracted to men, or is it just me?" Sherlock asks, apropos of nothing. He seems to think John being technically a copy of himself makes him more prone to answering highly invasive personal questions.

John, for the most part, puts up with it. There are worse things Sherlock could be doing, right now, than questioning John about something he already knows the answer to. "I'm sure you know the answer to this one already," he says.

"You didn't date a man the entire time we lived together before your death, but now you show signs of arousal and interest when you meet an attractive man. And now you're attracted to me." In his peripheral vision, John can see Sherlock narrow his eyes. "You're a doll, so obviously anything you know or feel is suspect. Mycroft could have ordered them to manufacture --"

"You're _really_ overthinking things, Sherlock," John interrupts before Sherlock can accuse John of not being real. Again. "I'm bisexual, I've always been bisexual, and I just find it easier to date women so that's what I do."

"Have you slept with a man before?"

"You have got to be kidding -- Of _course_ I've slept with a man before. Have _you_?"

"On occasion. Not often."

Trying to understand Sherlock's thought processes is really, really not worth the trouble. John pinches the bridge of his nose. "And why are you asking me this?"

Sherlock is quiet for long enough that John goes back to writing his blog entry -- new blog, because keeping a blog had turned out more enjoyable than he'd expected, but the old one belonged to his old life.

"Before you died, I was in love with you."

John chokes on his tea. Half of it ends up on his keyboard. When he can breathe again, he wipes at the droplets with the sleeve of his jumper. His face burns. "You're in love with me?"

"With who you _were_ ," Sherlock corrects sharply, but a pale flush rises on his cheeks.

John's at a loss for words. "Oh. Well that's -- uh, flattering."

"I didn't say it to flatter you."

"Okay? So why did you say it?"

"I wanted to see your reaction."

"You're not going to tell me why you wanted to see my reaction, are you."

Sherlock's attention has already gone. He looks up briefly when John asks. "Hmm? No."

\--

Sherlock kisses him the next day, slow and thoughtful when John's doing the washing up. John kisses him back. He stops when Sherlock pulls away. "That was nice," he says, and finishes rinsing the plate in his hands. "Experiment?"

Sherlock must have been expecting more of a reaction, because he makes a displeased face at John. "Yes."

"Okay." There have been worse experiments. In comparison, this one's rather painless.

"Well? Aren't you going to ask?" Sherlock demands when John puts the plate on the rack and reaches for the next dish.

It is really quite entertaining to wind Sherlock up. "No, but you're welcome to tell me if you want."

"I find myself sexually attracted to you. This doesn't usually happen."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not to me," and Sherlock scowls, as if his body's suddenly betrayed him.

"Well, you don't have to do anything about it if you don't want," John offers, and sets aside the rest of the washing up for later. He dries his hands on a dishrag.

"But that's the _problem_! I _do_ want to!"

"Did you want to before?" _Before I died, before I told you I loved you_.

Sherlock's expression becomes distinctly guarded. "Sometimes."

"I didn't know. I never knew, did I?"

"Obviously not," Sherlock says, in the derisive tone of voice that's become familiar once more. He looks John up and down. It's a look Sherlock's never given him before, a look he's gotten from plenty of men in pubs but never _Sherlock_ \-- not to him and not to the original John either. "We should have sex."

John suppresses the shiver of anticipation that runs down his spine at the idea. Because he's wondered about it -- it was one of the first things he wondered, in fact, whether he and Sherlock were more than friends. Whether after their cases, fueled on adrenaline and excitement, they'd tumbled together on the bed, or the floor, or the sofa. But... "Why?"

"Isn't wanting to reason enough?"

No, it's not, but there is something carefully guarded in Sherlock's voice -- there is a real reason, something he doesn't want to share, yet, with John.

John thinks about what he'd do in Sherlock's place -- if he'd been in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock had died and then come back almost but not quite the same. But then he thinks, _I've never done this before_. It'll be the _first_ thing he does with Sherlock that won't be playing catch-up against himself. Every gasp he coaxes from Sherlock's mouth, every spot he learns with his tongue, will be new for the both of them.

He wants, very much, to have something of Sherlock's that wasn't the other John's, first.

So he says, "I guess it is," and splays his hand over Sherlock's waist, and kisses him.

\--

Sherlock doesn't usually stick around afterwards -- he tries the first time, but it becomes obvious after a few minutes that he's bored of laying still, and starts to fidget when John would like nothing more than to go to sleep.

"You won't hurt my feelings if you get up to do something else," John says finally, when Sherlock's fingertips begin to tap a rapid melody on his hip. "I know you have an experiment in the sink that you're working on."

The fingers still. "It's not a reflection on yourself, of course," Sherlock says, already slipping out of John's bed and picking up his clothes. John watches him dress. "I just get --"

"Bored. I know. It's fine. I don't mind."

But sometimes Sherlock _does_ spend the night, curled tentatively around John's body. Those times, when the night grows still and peaceful, Sherlock will tell him things about their time together that John doesn't remember.

"You're the one who shot the cabbie, on our first case together," Sherlock will say, and John will nod against his shoulder, because he's guessed as much already. "Afterwards," Sherlock will continue, "we joked about how he'd been neither a nice man nor a good cabbie, and you told me we shouldn't giggle at crime scenes."

"Did I tell you that you were an idiot about the pills and make you watch the Princess Bride too?"

"Yes, actually."

"That's good," John will murmur, eyes closing. "It was the first thing I thought of when I read my blog entry again."

Another time, Sherlock will tell him, "There was a month, once, where you changed your computer password daily, but you weren't very creative with it. You started with Harry's name and your birthdate, but by the end of it, your passwords were all some variation of 'Piss off, Sherlock'. But with incorrect punctuation."

"No one punctuates their computer passwords," John will say into Sherlock's hair. "They're _passwords_."

"When you said that the last time, I changed your password to "Sherlock punctuates his passwords." Full stop and all."

"Git," John will reply with an affectionate chuckle, and tangle their fingers together.

Once, only once, Sherlock will say, "You don't do it anymore because you don't have the nightmares. But before, when night terrors woke you up, you would sometimes put your firearm on the table and stare at it. I don't know what you were thinking about when you did it, and I never asked."

And John will tighten his arms around Sherlock and not say anything in response.

\--

Sherlock takes a case for Scotland Yard, next. Lestrade had never stopped texting Sherlock about the cases, but it is the first time since John's death that he's replied to one. When they arrive at the crime scene -- burglary that'd turned to murder, Lestrade gives him a long, strange look.

"John?" he asks cautiously, when John hangs back with him to let Sherlock examine the body.

John nods. "Mycroft told you, I assume?"

"Well," Lestrade says, "He says they put you in another body. I'm not sure I'd believe him, if not for Sherlock. He's... He's a lot better than he was after you died."

"Yeah, he is, isn't he?" Still not the same yet, but better. He's put on more of the weight he's lost, and spends less time being dreadfully, frighteningly quiet.

"I'm glad you're back." Lestrade bumps their shoulders together, and John knows this gesture -- has seen it before, from an outsider's perspective. "We should catch up. See how much you lost. Pub later?"

They've gone to the pub before, after cases, just the two of them, coming out hours later laughing and clasping arms. John doesn't know what they talked about (Sherlock, probably). "Sounds lovely."

Sherlock turns to call for him, and John watches his face fall momentarily as he stops, remembering, and then brighten, remembering _again_.

"John! Come here and look at this puncture mark!"

\--

After an initial awkwardness where John doesn't know what to call the Detective Inspector ("Lestrade when I'm being a copper, and Greg if we're having a pint together"), they get on surprisingly well. Greg hadn't been as close to him as Sherlock had been, before his death, so John doesn't feel loss of his memories as keenly. Repairing what'd been between them feels less insurmountable.

He mentions as much, after his second beer.

"Everything's more complicated when it's about Sherlock Bloody Holmes," Greg agrees. "But I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. When Moriarty got you, it was pretty bad."

"What happened to me?" John asks. A morbid part of him wants to know. "It's not something they told me, and I don't want to ask Sherlock."

Greg's expression becomes troubled, and he fiddles with his glass before speaking. "He kidnapped and tortured you to death. I don't know the details, because Sherlock called his brother in first thing and got the case handed off to one of the special teams."

"What happened to Sherlock?"

"Worked himself to the bone looking for you, and after you died,worked twice as hard to hunt down Moriarty."

Sherlock had hunted down Moriarty, and killed him. Months ago, Mycroft had said. John nods. "And then what?"

"And then he disappeared into his flat and stayed there for months, driving us all half-mad with worry, until Mycroft brought you back."

John takes a deep drink from his beer. "And you?"

"I went to your funeral. And I'm bloody ecstatic to have you back, even if you're not quite the same. But I've had friends die, before, in the line of duty. I could cope. You were probably the only one, for Sherlock."

It's not a pleasant thought, that he may have been the _only_ one who'd gotten that close to Sherlock. That John had died, and left him alone.

"Let's talk about something else," John declares. "The highlights of the last year. Any good films get released?"

Apparently, yes, so they talk about the latest films John needs to catch up on, then Greg shares some funny stories about Sherlock, both after he'd met John the first time and before, until he catches sight of his watch and realizes he's got work the next day.

Greg wraps him in a tight hug outside the pub. "It's great having you back, John," he says. "Give Sherlock my regards."

"It's good to be back."

\--

"Don't you think one treatment a week is excessive?" John asks Mycroft, as he sits down in the chair-shaped machine. The black car had pulled up next to him only a week after his previous "treatment".

"Sherlock's started taking cases again, and considering how often he seems to find himself in mortal peril, I decided it'd be wise," Mycroft replies.

Topher makes a distressed sound. He's been at each of John's treatments so far, despite previously working at a Dollhouse in America, and seems to be the one in charge of handling John's imprint. John can't tell if that's Mycroft's doing, or if it's because he just makes an interesting case study. "Mortal peril? Dolls are expensive! The Active architecture is expensive! I thought we were imprinting a friend for your brother, not _putting an untrained doll in combat situations_. Let me give him some skills -- it's just one tweak of the imprint, and then John Watson, Doctor will become John Watson, Ninja."

"John?" Mycroft looks at him expectantly.

"Um. No thanks."

"Doctor Watson has military training. I'm sure he'll be fine."

\--

Now that he has a proper identity again -- a permanent one, hopefully, John gets properly settled into a new job. Slowly, he begins to feel less awkward about being in a body that didn't originally belong to him, and Sherlock must be coming to terms with it as well, because John gets fewer and fewer glimpses of the grief that had covered Sherlock like a cloak before.

Eventually, Sherlock stops telling John about himself, and when John asks why he stopped, Sherlock says, "I can't think of anything I haven't already told you that you shouldn't already know."

"What about when Moriarty kidnapped me the second time?" John asks, because there are details he doesn't know, details he'll _never_ know, and while he's okay with that, he wants to know everything else.

"He took you on the 17th of January," Sherlock begins, "and sent me an email to gloat."

John can identify the places where Sherlock glazes over the details -- places where _I questioned an associate of Moriarty's_ really means _I tortured a man for information_ , or _they'd already moved you when I reached the location, but I was able to find a lead_ is just a nicer way of saying _Moriarty's men were still there, so I hurt them_.

Sherlock's voice breaks and his fingers clench tight around John's when he describes the proof of John's death -- his heart, carved out of him and sent to the flat, and the DNA checks returning positive, and he skips to the ending rather quickly after that. "I finally found him in a safe house in Spain, and then I killed him. Mycroft retrieved me as I was finishing, and I returned to London."

"How did Mycroft manage to track you down so quickly, before you could get away? I didn't think he had that kind of power, outside of Britain," John says.

"I love you," Sherlock replies, apparently to completely distract John from what he says next, which is, "And I'd been killing Moriarty for six days, by the time Mycroft found me. It would have been longer, but someone had found the bodies of his guards and reported them to the police."

It takes a conscious effort not to focus on the first part of Sherlock's response rather than the last, but he manages it. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what to _say_ to that. What do you _say_ when someone says to you, _When you died, I went on a killing spree_?

He finally settles for, "Just don't... Don't do anything like that again." He feels like he's been punched in the chest. "I don't want you to murder people for me."

"Not even if they deserve it?"

"No," John repeats firmly.

"Not even if I won't get caught or punished?"

" _No_." For a second, John's afraid Sherlock's going to ask _why not?_

But he doesn't. "I'll try."

\--

When John wakes from a routine treatment, the first thing he hears is Topher's voice, saying, "-- this would happen. Can I make him a badass ninja now?"

He sits up. Sherlock is standing in the corner next to Mycroft, lips pursed. He hadn't been there when John had closed his eyes, and now that he's paying attention, he can tell that he's been placed in a new body. His hands are different.

"I died again, didn't I?" he says, and rubs his hands over his face. This is beginning to become a habit, one he'd rather not have. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock asks.

"Stopping by after work for a treatment. Um... Mycroft asking about how the dog fighting case was going? Something went wrong on the case, I take it?"

"The dog fighting ring was a front for a drug trafficking organization. During the case, you jumped in front of a bullet for me and bled out before the police could arrive."

"Oh. How long's it been since...?"

"It's been two days since your death, and five since your last treatment," Mycroft says smoothly. "Once I heard what happened, I had another doll shipped in from the states for you. Sherlock, _do_ try to take better care of your toys."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters, but his eyes are focused on John.

\--

They get only a couple feet into the hallway at home before Sherlock's crowding him up against a wall, running his hands up John's arms and cupping his chin, turning his head this way and that. After a minute or so, he ducks his head to bury his face in John's neck. " _John._ I -- I was worried for you."

"I'm sorry."

"I held you as you died. I knew Mycroft would be able to bring you back, but you suffered."

"Well, at least you got out of it okay," John says, and pushes Sherlock back just far enough to kiss him. Sherlock doesn't kiss him back. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock's frowning. "You don't feel -- your body isn't familiar to me. Even though the rest of you -- the way you hold yourself, your manner of speaking, your facial expressions, are all the same. Actually," he continues, voice changing as his thoughts distract him, "it's rather fascinating."

"I'm still the same person. Just think of me as the Doctor regenerating. Only without the personality changes."

"What? The what? Are you talking about a film?"

"TV series. I used to watch it as a kid, and then they made a remake of it while I was in Afghanistan. Still haven't got around to seeing the new ones, actually."

"Hmm," Sherlock says, and presses their mouths together. "You kiss the same way."

"The imprint only holds _my_ muscle memory, not anyone else's," John says. "I'm still left-handed too."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says, and kisses him again, as slow and exploratory as if it's their first time again.

\--

"Sherlock?"

"Mhmm?"

"You didn't kill anyone this time, did you?"

"No. They're in police custody."

"Okay. Just checking."

\--

John's new body is similar enough to his old one that they could have been related, and Mycroft offers to pull strings to get him his job at the hospital back without too many questions. He accepts, if only because he really, _really_ doesn't want to have to go through the process of rebuilding his life again.

The second death's easier than his first -- mind, he doesn't remember either of them, but this time all he has to do is call Harry to let her know he's going to look different (again) when they meet up next, and send a text to Lestrade saying that he's back and fine, really.

This time, there's only a five-day gap where there's nothing, and it's as if John had only been asleep. He can handle that.

"Did anything important happen since my last treatment?" John asks as he looks through his email inbox and sent messages folder. There's no new post on his blog, but that's because they hadn't finished the case yet.

"Nothing in particular," Sherlock replies, and then, "Mr. Brink offered to give you martial arts training, but you refused. Why?"

"I don't know." It'd just seemed strange, the idea of having someone else's knowledge in his mind. Where would he end and they begin? But it'd be useful. "Would it bother you if I let them? Would it change who I am?"

"The technology is capable of installing skills without causing damage to the original personality."

"Do you think I should?"

Sherlock looks away. "I don't like to see you get hurt."

\--

In the near future, John will allow the Dollhouse to give him more combat training, and it will save their lives when they get themselves into a bit of a scrape when chasing a case that brings them head to head with some of the Met's crooked coppers.

John will laugh, a little hysterically, staring at his hands like he's never seen them before even though he's been in the same body for more than a year now, and he will say, "Well, I guess that turned out useful, didn't it?"

Sherlock will smother a giggle, and squeeze John's hand, and say against John's face, "Good. I wasn't looking forward to having to pick out another body for you. You know how I hate shopping."

Afterwards, Mycroft will visit with a proposal and Sherlock will sigh and pluck discordant notes from the strings of his violin and John will say, "Are you sure that's a good idea?", and "Is that safe?" It will lead to a set of Active architecture installed in the back of Sherlock's neck and embedded in his brain.

Dangerous, perhaps, but not as dangerous as it could be, because _this_ architecture is different from the set in John's body and in the other dolls. This one is special, is sanctioned by the government, protected and kept secret and guarded zealously. By Sherlock's older brother, and if there's one thing about Mycroft that John trusts, it's that Mycroft will do anything in his power to protect Sherlock from harm.

Mycroft wields a not inconsiderable amount of power.

But there are limits to what they can be taught, and eventually, after some years have passed, all the extra training and knowledge the Dollhouse provides them will not be enough to save them, because ultimately, they are only human.

This is how it will end:

John will wake up, and he won't know what day it is, or how long he's been gone. He will open his eyes and be disoriented, and he will see Mycroft, older now, standing at his side. He will look at his hands, and stretch, and feel _youth_ in his body that he hasn't felt in years.

And he will hear a noise, and he will turn around, and there will be someone else -- a tall, dark-haired man who is just as young as John's new body is, sitting up and rubbing his face. And there will be a moment, where John's confused, because while he's never seen this man before in his life, John knows who he is, deep in his chest, because it's _Sherlock_ and Sherlock is as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror isn't.

"Sherlock?" John will ask. "Is that you?"

"John," Sherlock will reply, looking first down at himself, then at John. "I take it our latest case ended unfortunately. Did we find the murderers?"

"You were able to confirm their identity. The case is solved," Mycroft informs them. "But the warehouse you tracked him to was a trap, and you were both killed in the subsequent explosion."

At that, Sherlock will look at Mycroft, his eyes gone intent and focused, and he will say to his brother, "How much did you orchestrate, making it so that even on our deaths, you could bring us back? On _my_ death."

"Not as much as you're thinking, dear brother," Mycroft will say. "But the technology has such interesting potential, don't you agree? It's made so many promising advances in the past few years, and now there's _precedent_."

John may not be as smart as the Holmes brothers, but he's no imbecile, and he will have no trouble connecting the dots, taking people who are _invaluable_ and those who are _expendable_ , and adding them together to reach the inevitable conclusion.

"Is that why you did it?" Sherlock will ask. "So there's a _precedent_ when you grow even older and fatter than you already are?"

"I did it because you're family," Mycroft will respond more curtly, lips tilting downwards in displeasure. "Unlike you, I don't put myself in mortal peril every other week. It may prove useful in the future, but my primary concern _for the present_ was you. Besides, you really should keep yourself more up-to-date with the latest breakthroughs in human cloning. It's a fascinating subject, one I hope will prove _relevant_ within the next couple decades."

On their way home, Sherlock will nudge John with his shoulder. When John looks at him, Sherlock will say, "Mrs. Hudson already knows about us, as do Lestrade and your sister. We can continue our lives as they were before."

"Yeah, that sounds good." John will reply. "Have any other good cases on?"

"I might," Sherlock will answer and later they will go to solve a crime, as they always do, wearing new bodies but with everything else the same.

 _This is how it will end._

Or maybe, this is how it will really begin.  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Backup Copies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/328547) by [read by lunchee (lunchee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchee/pseuds/read%20by%20lunchee)




End file.
